


Bludgers & Brain Bleeds

by DrunkenWinky



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ballycastle Bats, Banter, Bickering, Discord: Dumbledore's Armada, F/M, Humor, One Shot, POV Marcus, Quidditch, Quidditch Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrunkenWinky/pseuds/DrunkenWinky
Summary: Marcus Flint hates many things. He hates the team he's Captain for. He hates the Quidditch Robes said team wears. The chants. The players. And not to mention that fecking mascot...but after taking a bludger to the head, Marcus Flint can't think of a single thing he hates more than Miss. Pansy Parkinson.
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 23
Kudos: 22
Collections: Make it... Quidditch!





	Bludgers & Brain Bleeds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dumbledore's Armada Discord FlashFic 'Make It...Quidditch!' Comp hosted by hslades'! Thank you so much for hosting such a fun comp!
> 
> Winner for Best Characterization and Most Surprising Fic!
> 
> Prompt:  
> Serious Injury
> 
> I just wanted to give a MASSIVE shout out to MimiFreed for betaing this piece, as well being my biggest cheerleader in the fandom. I would've never posted a single fic if it wasn’t for the constant support and love she’s showed me ❤️ If you haven’t, go check out her works! She’s AH-MAZING! 💛🖤

“Get your head outta your arse, Brannigan! Block the bleedin’ shots or abandon the posts!”

Marcus zoomed off down the pitch in a flutter of black robes, leaving his Keeper to stew in anger and, _hopefully,_ improve his performance. 

Merlin, he hated this team. He hated the ridiculous bat-like uniforms and the stupid chants the fans did every time they scored. And that mascot. FUCK that batty mascot. If someone had told him he’d be Captain for the Ballycastle Bats two years ago, he would’ve punched them. 

_Only until I get picked up by Ireland National_ , he thought, zipping around a Puddlemere player and catching the Quaffle from his teammate. _Then, I’ll be playing in the big leagues._

Marcus rocketed the Quaffle at the goal, not even bothering to see if it made it through. 

_‘If you make the Ireland Team, you won't be home as much,’_

It was her voice that whispered in his head, but he shook it off. She knew how much making the Ireland Team meant to him. They’d make it work. They _always_ made it work.

He heard the crowd roar, bellowing that annoying-as-feck-all chant as the announcer called out another ten points for the Bats. He turned his broom, hauling back down the pitch, following the Quaffle with his eyes. Marcus watched as O’Reilly, the _eejit_ , drifted to the right _._

“O’Reilly, left flank!” Marcus snapped. “McCarthy! Right!”

“Oi Flint! Watch out!”

He never saw the bludger, but he felt it. Boy, did he feel it. 

_She’s gonna kill me_ , was the last thought he had before everything went black.

  
  


* * *

Marcus felt like he’d been kicked in the head by a Hippogriff. Everything hurt, ached so deeply he wasn’t even sure he had _bones_ anymore.

He cracked his eyes, blinking rapidly as he took in the blinding, sterile light of his surroundings. When his brain stopped pounding enough for him to think a coherent thought—that _didn’t_ involve slews of expletives—he realized he wasn’t at home, wasn’t in his own bed after a lousy practice of drills and endurance training. No, Marcus was at St Mungo’s.

He looked down, noting he was already gowned, his leg tightly wrapped. As he went to sweep what he thought was hair from his brow, he realized he was bandaged there, too.

Marcus was no stranger to the Artefact Accidents Ward at St. Mungo’s, as he’d crashed his way into a private room a time or two in his Professional Quidditch career. Although, this was the first time he didn’t _remember_ being brought in. 

_“And who’s going to stop me from going in there? You? Fat chance.”_

Marcus may not have remembered how he ended up at St Mungo’s, but he definitely remembered that voice. _Merlin_ , no matter how hard he tried, he was sure he’d never be able to forget that voice.

Twenty seconds later, a very pissy looking Pansy Parkinson came strutting into the room, dress tight and heels clicking against the linoleum. She pulled the door shut behind her, and after giving the two finger salute to whatever unfortunate soul was on the other side, she turned those dagger-like green eyes on Marcus. 

“Thank Merlin,” she drawled, approaching his bedside with her arms crossed and hips swaying in a tantalizing way, “—that you didn’t fuck up your teeth.” 

The comment had Marcus tearing his gaze away from trying to get a look at her ass and darting his eyes up to meet hers.

She sniffed. “I don’t think I would’ve much enjoyed combing through the Quidditch pitch trying to find them—”

“Parkinson,” Marcus hissed, one part greeting, one part in the hopes to shut her up. He noted a flash of uneasiness cross her face before she slid into a cool, indifferent mask.

_“Parkinson?”_ she parroted back, which only proved to further grate on his nerves.

“Yes, _Parkinson_ —that’s your bleedin' name, isn’t it?” he barked, squinting his eyes as another terrible pulse raked through his grey matter. “I’m sure as hell not calling you by the one your mother gave you.”

One of her perfectly sculpted brows rose on her forehead as she turned her nose back towards the door, her beautiful eyes seeming to search for something beyond it.

_Beautiful? Where had that come from?_

Marcus tried to follow the thread to where the thought had originated, but it disappeared just as quickly as it had come, the fleeting notion slipping off into the recesses of his rattled brain.

“Musta hit my head,” he mused aloud, more to himself than to her, since he’d be damned if he were to be the one to strike up a conversation between them. Instead, he chose to close his eyes and lean his head back against the fluffy pillows beneath him. “I don’t remember a thing.”

“Bludger, actually,” she hummed, sounding a little further away and rummaging through something on the other side of the room. “It slammed directly into your skull, after which you proceeded to fall about two hundred feet to the ground, which is how your leg got into its absolutely _mangled_ state—”

“Bet you would’ve loved to have seen that,” he grumbled.

The rummaging stopped and a beat of silence fell over the room.

“ _Why_ would I have loved to have seen that?”

Marcus’ eyes shot open, scanning the room until he spotted her, her arms half buried in a pile of what was unmistakably the clothes he’d been brought in wearing.

“Oi! Paws off my things, Parkinson!”

He attempted to adjust himself higher on the pillows, the motion disturbing his injured leg. He groaned as a bolt of agony shot up to his groin, barely managing to keep himself from gagging at the sheer pain of it. He stilled, peeling his eyes open to shoot her a scowl.

Pansy looked like a doe caught in the wandlight.

He glared at her, despising that stupid, gobsmacked look on her face. Although, Marcus couldn’t deny, while her personality was horrendous, he had always found Parkinson to be outrageously fit. Draped in those sinful, deliciously form fitting dresses that made his mouth water, it was fact that Parkinson’s body was one worth dying for. But, now that he looked at her, he didn’t remember her looking so…

“You look old.”

“ _Excuse me_?” she gasped.

“Not like that,” he waved his hand dismissively. “But you look... _different._ Older, from how I remember.” 

Parkinson rolled her eyes. “Okay, Marcus. Whatever you say.”

_Marcus?_ When did she ever call him Marcus?

“Parkinson,” he growled, nearing the end of his patience. “Why did the Bat’s management send you and not one of the other reps?”

Pansy’s face went from annoyed to hesitant.

“Why _wouldn’t_ they send me?”

Marcus felt his teeth grind as he clenched his jaw. 

“We hate each other,” he stated plainly. “We’ve always hated each other, since the moment we met. And we’ve continued hating each other, even after I got contracted on to be Captain with Ballycastle,” he laughed humorlessly. “What, with you being head of PR for all of Ireland’s _good_ Quidditch Teams, there’s really no way for me to escape having to see your bitchy face—”

“What year is it?” Parkinson interrupted, her face wiped clean of any expression as she stared at him.

He stopped.

“What?”

“I asked, what year is it?”

Marcus’ brows furrowed. She was barmy, asking him what year it was. Of course he knew what year it was. It was…

“It’s…” he trailed off, trying to recall the answer but coming up short.

“Has a healer been in to see you yet?” she asked, and Marcus felt himself becoming increasing annoyed at playing this little game with her.

“Dunno,” he grumbled. “Last I remember we were playing Wimbourne—”

“Puddlemere,” Parkinson corrected cooly, turning and heading towards the door. “You were playing Puddlemere.”

Marcus shook his head, the action causing such effort that black spots erupted in his vision.

“Listen here, you bint—”

“ _Bint_?” Parkinson stopped dead, not two steps from the door. “Did you just call me a _bint_?”

“Are _you_ incapable of anything but bleating back exactly what I’ve just said?”

A shiver ran up his bruised spine at the absolutely lethal look she shot him.

“Oh,” Pansy growled as she glided out the door, “you’re going to be in _so_ much trouble for that one.”

As he listened to her heels click away down the corridor, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret in his chest. Surely, they’d said far worse to each other over the years. Hell, he was sure he’d called her worse names each time he saw her. But, he couldn’t help but feel... _bad_ about it now.

_What a strange reaction_ , he thought to himself, but quickly shook it off and attempted to settle into a restless sleep.

It didn’t last long.

What felt like moments later, Marcus was being roused awake by a man in lime green robes and Parkinson, who stood not two steps behind the mediwizard.

“Mr. Flint,” the man stated, professional but trembling, his bespectacled gaze flickering back and forth between Marcus and his chart.

“I’m here to run a quick evaluation of your mental faculties, as they may have been impacted when you got... _impacted_.”

Marcus’ glare could’ve rivaled Parkinson’s best.

The Mediwizard swallowed.

“Your name?”

“Marcus Liam Flint.”

“Your birthday?”

“March 14th, 1976.”

“Her name?” the Mediwizard motioned to Parkinson behind him.

“Her name?” Marcus asked, now beyond frustrated and confused. What did _she_ have to do with his mental faculties?

“What’s her full name?” the man prompted.

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Pansy Parkinson,” he grated out.

“Interesting…” the Mediwizard muttered, raising his eyebrows as he scribbled something down on the clipboard before him.

“What’s _interesting_? Are you two having some kind of laugh?”

“No, er, apologies, Mr. Flint,” the man stuttered, making his way to the door. “I’m going to fetch you a potion for your headache. I’ll be right back.”

The moment the Mediwizard's foot fell into the outside hallway, Parkinson whirled on him.

“I don't care how much you love them,” she hissed, speaking quickly and in a hushed tone, “but you’re getting rid of those ridiculous beer glasses your wretched ex got you from Germany—”

“Steins,” he corrected automatically, then spluttered. “How do you know one of my ex girlfriends got me beer steins?”

“And we’re getting a cat,” she finished, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Cats?” he echoed.

“Yes, a cat. And, considering you called me _old_ , and a _bint_ ,” she ticked them off on her fingers, “that’s at least two.”

Parkinson had always been an enigma, but the way she was talking now was plain crazy. Marcus was about to ask just what in the _blithering feck_ she was going on about when the Mediwizard returned, a vial of steaming potion in his hands.

“ _Finally,_ ” Marcus groaned, fully ready for his headache to be over and hoping Parkinson, and her barking-mad-ass, would disappear along with it.

The healer handed him the vial and he greedily drank it down, his lips twisting at its sour taste. Marcus felt the pain ebb away, like a fog being lifted, and suddenly a litany of memories flooded back to him.

Sparkling, deadly green eyes.

An upturned nose scrunched in laughter.

A full lipped mouth turned down in a playful pout.

A whirling white gown.

Silky black hair clenched in his fist, his lips skating over an arched neck as he groaned her name into it, her small hands clawing at his shoulders.

“ _Pansy,_ ” Marcus breathed, turning his head to look at his wife.

Pansy reached out towards him, a golden band laying in the center of her palm.

She fixed him with a mischievous smirk, and Marcus narrowed his eyes at her.

“I apologize for what I said, but we’re _not_ getting a cat, Mrs. Flint.”

“Correct,” she whispered, sliding his wedding band onto its rightful place on the fourth finger of his left hand. 

  
“I believe I said we’re getting _two_.”


End file.
